


Open Road

by flowersandteeth



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Tony Stark, Blow Jobs, Drama & Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Motorcycles, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter works in a bar, Peter's over 18, Strangers to Lovers, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21474949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersandteeth/pseuds/flowersandteeth
Summary: It's not love, but it's good.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 178





	Open Road

**Author's Note:**

> (inspired by the song Dead of Night by Orville Peck...well, really just the vibe of the entire album)
> 
> Peter’s 19-20, Tony’s late thirties, early forties  
TW: implied abuse (not between Tony/Peter); bruises/violence; panic attack

* * *

It's not love, but it's good.

The stranger's older, rougher around the edges, but sweeter, somehow, than he should be. Grins like he knows how to take a hit, drinks like he used to be familiar with waking up in unfamiliar places, but he kisses Peter like he's precious. Slow and soft and hot, until Peter's a clinging mess, rocking up against a solid, denim-clad thigh.

It's easy, crowded up against the wall outside the back exit of the bar, chasing his release while a gorgeous stranger that's probably more than twice his age brushes kisses along his jaw and murmurs in his ear about how pretty he looks riding his leg, it's easy to forget what waits for him at home, if only for a fraction of an hour after his shift.

*

The next night, near closing time, Peter's surprised. Tony strolls in again, orders a scotch that he tosses back still standing at the bar, and then takes a table in the corner where he can smoke. When he catches Peter watching him from across the room, he smirks and sits back, knees falling open as he taps his cigar over the glass ashtray on his table and very blatantly gives Peter a once-over.

Peter looks away sharply, face heating as he tries to focus on the booth he's wiping down, instead of his pleased surprise at the fact that Tony's still here. People don't tend to stay for long; it's a one bar, one gas station kind of town. The only lodging is a rundown Motel 6, and most of the passers-through are beer-gut truckers, and the occasional touristy asshole cruising for an adventure they definitely won't find.

He's not really sure what Tony is, but he looks straight off the cover of a Harlequin romance novel, or maybe out of one of those low-budget (but so much sexier for it) pornos. Long legs in worn denim, plugged into dirty, scuffed up motorcycle boots that go with the leather jacket that hangs off the back of his chair.

Peter hasn't seen the bike--the bar's walking-distance from the motel and it wouldn't make sense for Tony to take it the couple minutes back and forth--but Tony'd mentioned it, and when they'd parted last night, Peter'd known Tony would be back on the road by morning, whether he'd said so or not.

But he's here, puffing on his cigar and unabashedly watching Peter finish up his closing duties.

*

This time, just after they've started making out, same place, same position, Tony pulls back to give Peter a brief, almost chaste kiss.

"How would you feel about moving this to the motel?"

The question is warm with promise, and the vehement 'Yes' dances to the tip of Peter's tongue--

\--where it dies suddenly.

His second of silent hesitation is loud between them, and he opens his mouth to apologize, but the older man just smiles at him.

"It's okay, kid."

Tony moves back in, hands coming up to cradle Peter's jaw as he coaxes them back to where they'd left off.

*

For a few nights, it's the same; Tony shows up before closing, and when Peter's done with work they end up back at their spot.

It's not love, but it's exhilarating.

Peter doesn't even have room to be worried about the difference in experience, not when Tony's running a constant stream of compliments and encouragements and dirty things between kisses, when he's guiding Peter's hips in a steady, deliciously rough roll until Peter's coming, gasping Tony's name.

Tony never takes himself out, never urges Peter's hands down towards his fly or gives any indication that he's expecting Peter to reciprocate. He just grins and helps him ride through it, pets Peter's hair and strokes his jaw with calloused thumbs. Kisses him and tells him how good he is, how beautiful he looks and sounds.

Peter carries the afterglow home with him each time, cradled in his chest in the hope that maybe it'll make the rest of his night a little more bearable.

*

They've been doing it for almost a full week when Tony tentatively brings up the motel room, again.

"Still no pressure, sweetheart, I promise--but I've got a perfectly good bed a couple minutes away, and there're so many more things I'd like to do for you that'd work a hell of a lot better with a lot less clothing and a lot more privacy." His small smile is suggestive and affectionate, and his hands are a warm weight on Peter's hips.

The thing is, Peter's not afraid of Tony, not concerned about being alone with him at the motel. His body hums in anticipation of what this man could make him feel if he just said yes, but there's an ugly trickle of anxiety cooling the heat.

If he takes his clothes off, Tony's going to see the bruises.

"I--I can't. I'm sorry," Peter whispers, turning his head and squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden prickle of tears and the almost instinctive urge to brace himself.

_What'd you say, Pete? Huh? 'No'?_

_You wanna run that by me again, you little prick?_

"Pete--"

A hand brushes his cheek, and he flinches. Hard.

"Fuck, I'm--I'm sorry," he gasps out, sliding out from between Tony and the wall, his skin too sensitive, his everything too sensitive.

"It's okay, kid, sweetheart, hey--"

There's nothing threatening, nothing but concern in the older man's tone and expression, but it's not enough to override the panic.

"I have to go," Peter bites out, struggling to keep the explosion inside, "Goodbye, Tony."

It doesn't occur to him until he's halfway home that he'd said 'goodbye' instead of 'goodnight', and he's so absolutely sure he just ruined the very nicest thing he's maybe ever had. The thought chokes him, and he goes to his knees on the driveway outside the house, spilling the heartbreak where it won't get him more hurt.

*

Tony doesn't come back the next night.

Peter wants to throw up.

His shift drags by, and he resolutely doesn't look in the direction of the Motel 6 when he leaves.

*

Another two nights, and Peter's sure Tony's gone. He's sure, but can't bring himself to make it real, to go wander over to the parking lot of the motel in search of a black, classic motorcycle he's never actually seen.

It wasn't love...but his chest feels so tight, so sore, and his stomach's in constant knots.

The hurt of everything feels so much more, and he has the horrifying thought that maybe this was how he'd always felt, that somehow a stranger old enough to be his--

\--a stranger he'd made out with for a week, had been the thing to shatter the glass. Pull back the curtain on the jagged, violent truth of Peter's life.

Peter doesn't know how long it'll take to be numb again. If he ever could be.

He has to run to the bathroom so he doesn't throw up on the floor he's almost finished mopping.

*

The streets are empty most hours of the day, but at four in the morning, the town's a veritable graveyard. Peter's footfalls are loud, slapping the cracked pavement, his breath rattling in his ears as he sprints. His steps jar his frame, highlight every new and fading bruise.

He can't do it.

He can't keep going back, he can't face another fucking night of the hell he calls home after staring at that empty corner table, not if there's a sliver of a chance--

When he reaches the motel, the laugh that rips out of his throat is hysterical, relieved.

At the very end of the lot, parked in the numbered space directly in front of one of the rooms, is a beast of a motorcycle. He comes to a stop beside it, frozen for a moment, pulse pounding, before he runs to the door. His palm connects solidly with the wood--once, twice, three times--before he has a chance to think about what he's doing, that it's ass o'clock in the morning and maybe that bike isn't even Tony's, maybe Tony never even had a bike in the first place--

Wood is suddenly open air, and then it's him. It's Tony, standing there looking tired and irritated.

Before Peter can be slammed with guilt, the expression vanishes into the same devastated relief that Peter's sure is mirrored on his own.

"Jesus, kid, are you--"

"I'm not," Peter sobs, "I'm not alright, I thought you were gone, I thought I ruined everything--"

"No, baby, no--I'm sorry, sweet pea, come here--"

He's pulled into the room and the door shuts, and then he's wrapped in those strong arms, crushingly tight against a broad chest that smells faintly of tobacco and strongly of Tony. He fists his hands into the back of the older man's shirt, hanging on for dear life.

Tony doesn't complain or try to get him to let go. He just presses kisses to Peter's temples and cheeks and the top of his head, murmurs "It's okay, I'm right here, It's okay..." over and over. He shifts them to the bed, maneuvers until Peter's lying on his chest, and tangles their legs together, his broad palms rubbing up and down Peter's back.

Eventually, the slide and squeeze of those achingly familiar hands combined with the solid warmth and steady fall of words lulls Peter back to something close to calm.

There's a heavy exhalation, Tony's breath ruffling Peter's hair.

"I thought I scared you, kid. Thought I pushed you too hard, I didn't want to make it worse, so I stopped coming in. I'm sorry, Peter."

"It wasn't...You didn't."

Peter gingerly pulls away, sits up. Takes in Tony's obvious concern for him, the way the he mirrors the action, doesn't reach to pull Peter back in but looks ready to do so if asked. The obvious care on his face.

It's terrifying.

After a few seconds of silence, Tony reaches up to run fingers gently through Peter's hair, hand sliding back to cup the side of his neck.

"Stay with me, kid. Get some sleep, yeah?" Tony says quietly, gazing at him, still worried. "We can talk in the morning."

Fifteen minutes later, Peter's curled up on his side, drifting off with the warm puff of Tony's breath against the nape of his neck, and calloused, scarred fingers twined with his up near his chest.

He's never relaxed enough to feel exhausted.

Tonight, sleep is easy.

*

Morning is gentle. The most gentle, quiet morning Peter's ever had.

He wakes warm, belly-down on the mattress, to a hand running lightly up and down his back. Tony coaxes him up, gives him a towel and bundle of soft clothes to change into, and directs him to shower. Peter goes with it, feels barest hint of wariness, a lingering prickle in the back of his mind that rinses away along with the suds of the cheap, two-in-one motel body wash and shampoo.

When he comes out, dressed in sweats and a flannel shirt (everything's rolled up; the sleeves to free his hands, the waistband and ankles of the sweats), Tony's on the edge of the bed, looking up from the palms he'd been rubbing into his eyes.

The older man's expression goes a little hungry, gaze sweeping up and down in a way Peter's become oh so familiar with, a look he never thought he'd see again.

"I like that a little too much, I think," Tony muses, smirking when he finally makes it back to Peter's face. "Wanna get my hands under all of it. Would, if we had the time."

He sighs, pushes to his feet and walks over, cradling the back of Peter's head with one palm and pressing a kiss to his hair. "I'm gonna shower, and we'll have that talk."

*

Tony's anger is...big.

But, controlled.

When Peter talks about his father, reluctantly shows Tony the purple-yellow-green stains spread over his skin, the anger pools, but it doesn't leak into anything. There are no clenched fists or stiff motions. It's all in the eyes. It's...thoughtful. Decisive.

"You need clothes," Tony says, speaking to Peter, but staring at a fading bruise on Peter's shoulder. He tugs the collar of the flannel back into place. "Let's go."

*

Peter doesn't go into the house. Tony asks him not to. It's not even an order disguised as a question, not a test; Peter really has the option.

He tells Tony where his room is, where he keeps the few clothes he does have.

The stop takes about thirty minutes. Peter stays by the bike at the end of the dirt and gravel drive, staring at the clapboard siding, the peeling paint of the tiny deck, the dented and torn screen door.

Tony comes out, sauntering down the path with Peter's old backpack, stuffed full. When Tony hands it to him, Peter catches sight of red-smeared knuckles.

Peter doesn't ask. He just drops his backpack on the ground and pulls Tony down for a kiss.

*

By the time they get back to the room, Peter's hard and leaking in his borrowed pants. The adrenaline, the vibrations of the bike, Tony's warmth pressed all along his front; he'd been helpless to it, to all of it. To everything.

There's no real preamble; the motel door shuts behind them, and he's up against it, Tony sinking to his knees and taking the sweats down with him as he goes. It doesn't take much, a few seconds of perfect suction, of the strong, sure grip urging his hips forward, deeper--

Peter cries out when he comes, a reverently agonized gasp of Tony's name.

*

After Peter's dressed in his own clothes and the motel room door is locked behind them, there're a few minutes of quiet. Tony runs a check of the bike and the bags attached, and Peter only watches for a moment before letting his gaze slide in the direction of the bar.

It's still earlyish, near ten in the morning. Church will get out soon, and the parishioners will file unerringly to the bar to have a beer with breakfast. Peter's supposed to start his shift at eleven. He wonders if they'll try to call when he doesn't show up, and if his father will be able to pick up the phone.

He doubts it.

Tony calls his name, and when Peter turns, the older man asks if he wants some real power between his legs. When Peter scowls at him, the biker just grins and sidles up and hands him a helmet, tells him it's like a kitten growling, pulls him close and kisses his forehead.

"Come on, kid, let's get out of here."

*

Sunlight spills through the clouds when the town's no longer in their rearview.

The open road is beautiful, the growl of the bike's engine almost as much so.

Peter squeezes Tony's waist a little harder.

It's not love, but it could be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Idk, folks.
> 
> visit me on Tumblr: @flowersandteeth


End file.
